A Winchester By Any Other Name
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Skin tag fic: For all the hospital knows, the Dean Winchester their patient keeps asking for is dead.


**A Winchester By Any Other Name**  
K Hanna Korossy**  
**

"Mr. Winchester?"

Too loud. He rolls his head away and moans. _Hurts. _

"Mr. Winchester, can you hear me?"

He winces, tries again, sees only blinding white. Too bright.

"Mr. Winchester, please try to listen to me."

Too loud, it's all too loud. It makes his stomach lurch, and the voices get louder, bees buzzing, too much. He drifts, wanting to be not here.

"Mr. Winchester, I need to know who to call for you."

The words are important, and he tries to think but it hurts. Everything hurts and he just wants it to go away.

"Mr. Winchester—"

Making his mouth move takes all his effort and it comes out garbled, a dying grunt. He turns his head again, gasping as pain constricts around it like an iron band. Salt, he needs salt, sanctify the iron…

"Mr. Winchester, who can I call for you?"

He tries to swallow, then tries to groan, body twitching, beyond his control. But his tongue somehow shapes the word, finally, his first, his most important. "D'n."

"Dean? Your brother Dean?"

Oh, God, too loud, gonna split, hurl, mess up the car, going to—

"Mr. Winchester…Dean's gone. Your brother died, remember? We need someone else."

He tries to open his eyes, but the light is a skewer, sharp like a knife, silver. What? Dean is…

"Mr. Winchester, please. Who else besides Dean?"

No one. No one else but Dean. Jess wasn't…there's no one.

Dead?

He thinks he's screaming but maybe he's just groaning, and he whites out on _too bright too loud pain dead? _Dean?

And then the light's different and there's something warm and thick stuffed in his head instead of the pain. Or maybe over the pain, because he can feel it under, hungry and cold and with teeth. Hurt, he's hurt. His hands flex empty, his ears open only to beeps and clicks.

"Deee…"

This time when he rolls his head, it's not agony, but it does feel like it might roll off, disconnected. Nobody braces it, and the hand that touches him is small and cool and soft.

"Mr. Winchester, are you awake?"

"Deeee…" He can't seem to push it out completely, and Dean would smack him if he found out Sam had turned him into a girl. The thought makes him giggle.

"Mr. Winchester, can you tell me who we can call for you?"

It's not as bright, just makes him dizzy, and he blinks twice to bring her into focus. Small and dark and pretty and not-Dean. "Deeeeen," he tries again, pleased when he finds the "n."

The pretty face crinkles like a deflating balloon. "Mr. Winchester—Sam—I'm sorry, your brother Dean, he's dead. Remember? They said he was shot a few weeks ago. A girl was attacked…"

Attacked. Girl screaming. He remembers…

Dean, dead?

He forces thoughts past the cotton, the amusement gone, something quick and frantic darting around in his chest. Bloody girl. Dean. Shots, Dean flying back, dead eyes.

Dean is dead?

He groans, turns away from her, feeling his stomach lurch up into his throat, and then he's sick, heaving, warm where he's wet, cold everywhere else. Girl, gun, Dean's empty face and eyes.

"Mr. Winchester!"

He thinks he manages to cry out this time.

He's back and then not. Awake, drifting, hearing voices, turned by hands, none of them familiar.

He thinks he's dead inside and no one knows it yet.

There's no one to call, and he won't talk. His mind clears slowly, his body gets heavier, and all he can think is, Dean's dead.

It should all hurt worse than it does, he believes, except he's dead, too, so that explains it.

Then there's quiet, no one there, no one really ever there, and he makes himself sit up. The room spins, no more anchor left. His stomach's a twisted knot, or maybe it's his heart. Jess and Dean, maybe they're together now, and he has to go.

He finds his shoes, red now where they were white, and an unfamiliar jacket, but something's wrong with his arm, so he just pulls it over his shoulders. Dean used to do that with his own jacket, kept Sam warm no matter what, but he's not there, and it's time to _go. _

Bright and loud, and he ducks his head when he sees uniforms, but there's a blue stripe on the floor and he follows it, and soon he's blinking in the sun outside, flinching away from blobs of light and chatter that gets too close. The world's too big without Dean there, and there's no more blue stripe, no green eyes, no warm jacket. He just walks.

But it's cold and it's going to get colder, and when it gets wet, too, he knows he's crying.

There's no place left where there's Dean, so it doesn't matter where he goes. He just walks.

00000

"Great. Just abso-friggin'-great." Dean glowered at the building, pacing a tight line in front of its doors. Sam was inside, but he might as well have been a million miles away, and brick and mortar never seemed so _sinister_. Dean wanted to be in there, needed to be, but…

He spat another curse, chewed on his hand as he stared at the building. Okay. All right. It wasn't like Sam was in danger in there, or as if Dean were physically blocked from going in. Besides the ninety freakin' police officers milling around his brother. And the fact that, as of five weeks ago, Dean Winchester was supposed to be both officially a serial killer and dead. Small details, and ones he could overcome if he absolutely had to, if he needed to get to Sam or get him out of there. Just not worth risking if he didn't _have_ to get to Sam just, you know, _needed_ to.

But the nurse he'd cajoled earlier for information had told him Sam was in good condition, asleep and not in danger. The last thing the kid needed was to be dragged out of the hospital to some fleabag motel where pills crushed into courtesy cups and Dean hanging on to his wrist was the closest they came to IV drips and heart monitors. Best to leave him there for now, even if Dean felt almost physically torn in half, stuck outside the walls that held his brother.

Stupid Sam, getting caught up in some random mugging, outnumbered by three, kid never_learned_. The cops had found him before Dean could, got his real name off his driver's license, and didn't call his dead brother, and there was more wrong with that than he could count. Learning your brother had been beaten half to death by retracing his steps and finding police and bloodstains and a chatty crime-beat reporter was about number five on the list of things Dean never wanted to repeat, ever.

But Sam had saved the girl, and he really was doing what he'd learned. And he'd be all right, the nurse had sworn, just had his bell rung really hard and his shoulder dislocated, and Dean could deal with this, he could. He even felt proud, for God's sake, and wondered uneasily if this was how Dad felt when one of them got hurt on a hunt. But nobody had ever kept Dad from seeing his kids; he wouldn't have stood for it. Dean slumped, defeated by a wall and a record that wasn't even his. Damn it all, it wasn't _fair. _

He rubbed a hand through his hair and over his mouth, glancing at his watch. And jumped. Man, and on top of everything now, he was going to be late. Jim's plane was landing in less than ten minutes, and the airport was at least fifteen. Dean darted one more glance at the building, picking out the window the nurse had said was Sam's, and silently promising, _Soon. _Jim first, so someone would be there with Sam who was, well, not wanted and dead. Then as soon as Sam could safely leave, Dean would take it from there, find him someplace warm and safe where he could heal. And Dean could drill it into his head that they were supposed to be facing muggers or injuries together.

One more glance—_I'm right here, Sammy—_then Dean pried himself away. He'd be back soon, to stay.

00000

People can't meet you at the gate anymore since 9/11 changed the world and air travel as we know it—courtesy of the monsters that _didn't_ hide in the night—but somehow it didn't surprise me to find Dean standing there as I stepped off. I was half-expecting a sign, even, something along the lines of the "KKK Grand Dragon Jim Murphy" that had greeted me at the end of one trip. But the moment I saw his face, I knew there'd be no jokes this time. Sam was hurt, and Dean would find no joy until his brother was back to him in one piece.

He took my bag and dropped into stride with me as we headed for the exit, his face dark and probably blank to those who didn't know him. But I could claim that honor, and I was saddened by what I saw: fear, rage, desperation, determination. And, always Dean's saving grace, love.

"Thanks for coming, Jim," he said quietly.

"Of course, Dean, anytime, you know that." He ducked his head; his father had trained him how to take anything but compassion. I think only Sam had figured out how to sneak that by him. "Any change with your brother?"

A tight shake of the head. "He's stable—they don't really expect anything to change until they can release him."

"That's good," I said kindly, meaning it. I had never tolerated well seeing Samuel in pain, either. I didn't question God's ways, but some troubled me more than others, and bright, friendly, warm-hearted Sam suffering had always been one.

Dean nodded, face softening fractionally. I knew he'd sent for me because of Sam, but had wondered if it hadn't been a little for him, too, to repeat and confirm what he already knew.

"So," I said conversationally, adding a smile to soften the question. "You want to tell me why you're officially deceased _and_ wanted by police according to the state of Missouri?"

The answer took up most of the trip to the hospital and left me quietly grieved. It wasn't the first time I'd silently berated my old friend for leaving his two children adrift in his wake. Not that Sam and Dean didn't know what they were doing; they were probably two of the most oriented young people I'd ever met. But they faced things no adult with a life's worth of experience should have had to face alone, let alone two young men just starting to work alone.

Then again, they weren't really alone, were they? They had each other.

Which was probably why Dean seemed to be walking a knife's edge of holding it together. Even when he was hurt, Sam kept him balanced. Alone, Dean was struggling. I wondered if I'd find Sam similarly lost.

Dean walked up to the hospital doors with me, the look of longing on his face making me ache for him. "Dean. I have a spare collar in my bag—you could come in as an—"

He was already shaking his head. "Thanks, Jim, but I don't wanna take the chance. Last thing Sammy needs now is seeing me dragged off to jail. Just…stay with him, okay? Make sure he knows I'm out here and I'll see him soon." He grabbed my arm. "I didn't leave him, you tell him."

I nodded. Maybe Sam was the one who showed love more easily and openly, but Dean's was fierce and hard.

Dean nodded back, peeling his fingers with difficulty off me. I flexed it out of his sight, gave him an encouraging smile and a wave of the cell phone, and walked inside.

A collar is useful for a lot of things, especially getting information quickly and easily. Everybody trusts a man of God. I had Sam's room number and the assurance he would be fine from two different nurses, and the police officers at the end of Sam's hall didn't give me a second glance.

It didn't help much, however, when I walked in the door of his room and found it empty.

People couldn't tell me what they didn't know. The nurses' reaction made it clear Sam should have been in that bed, and the police activity confirmed it. I sighed, suppressing a groan, and sank down to wait for news in the bank of chairs in the hallway as the agitated traffic flowed around me.

But Samuel was nowhere to be found. And I didn't know what worried me more, not knowing where he was, or having to be the one who told Dean.

00000

Cold.

Hurt.

Everything has narrowed down to those two realities.

And alone.

He stumbles on because his feet have forgotten how to stop, his aching body distracted from crashing by the motion. He thinks if he stops, he won't ever be able to start again, and that's not half as frightening as the thought that he'll never find…someone again. Someone who matters and will just make this all end.

So he keeps going.

His eyes close sometimes, full of water and blur, and he stumbles. One time he's down on his knees, grass an up-close spread of shiny green, and he coughs until he's groaning, then pushes himself back up. It takes several tries.

Tired.

Lost.

He isn't sure anymore how he got here, except then he remembers, Dean's dead, and there doesn't seem to be a here or there that matters anymore. He's not even sure why he keeps going. He's lost his reasons.

Wet.

_Alone. _

And then he sees it.

He can't focus enough to take in details, or to remember exactly what it means. But it's big and black, shiny and solid, and it's like home when he leans against it. He fumbles the handle, doesn't think twice about it when he finds it open, and folds inside with a groan.

But Dean is dead, and home is no longer home. It doesn't even smell like his brother anymore, no matter how desperately he pushes himself back into the vinyl. Pain roars to life when he drops his head and shoulder against the seat, and he sobs a moan. It's cold and hard and quiet and not Dean, and he suddenly understands how alone he is.

He curls up in the seat and mourns in the privacy of what was once his sanctuary.

00000

"He's _what?_What kind of…frickin' hospital is this? Mother…"

It was only the instinct of years of living around Jim that kept Dean's language that clean, not lack of feeling. Because the morons in the hospital had _lost _Sam, and if that didn't deserve the choicest words in Dean's vocabulary, he didn't know what did. Besides, there was nothing else to say.

He set his jaw, marched toward the doors. "I'm gonna—"

"Dean." His arm was grabbed, and again it was a close thing keeping him from lashing out at what was keeping him from Sam. A second later, his vision cleared to bring Jim's concerned face into view. "This isn't the way," their old friend coaxed.

Simmering, Dean let himself be pulled back a step.

"It's more dangerous than ever for you in there now, and Sam's not even there. There's no point—"

"They didn't catch the freaks who did this to him, Jim," Dean seethed back, keeping his rage in check because Murphy wasn't the one he was mad at. "Maybe they—"

"No," Jim said firmly. "You might have gotten by the police, but they're actually looking for the men who did this to Sam. There's no way they could have reached him and gotten him out of there without anyone seeing."

Dean eyed him. "You saying Sam took off on his own?"

Jim shrugged, letting him come to his own conclusions.

He just didn't like the ones he was arriving at. Dean dropped down on the bench along the front walkway as if his strings had been cut. A light rain had started up, but he could barely feel the dampness seeping into his jeans. "He's got a bad concussion, Jim—he can't be thinking too straight. And I wasn't…" He trailed off, tilting his head to the side so Jim didn't see him swallow. He hadn't been there. Sam was hurt and confused, and Dean hadn't been there to watch his back and orient him, make him safe. Of course Sam had taken off.

"Dean." Jim's voice was a little too soft as he sank down on the bench beside him. "We'll find him. You know Sam better than anyone—where would he go?"

Dean dragged his hands up and down his jeans. He didn't know Sam as well as Jim thought; three-plus years apart had put some wide cracks between the two of them. Dean wasn't even sure sometimes how well he'd known the kid even in the few years leading up to Sam's departure. And Sam, for all his apparent openness, didn't let people see very much of what was really inside.

But Jim was right, Dean probably still did know him best. No school buddies could replace eighteen years of feeding and driving and teaching and listening to Sam. That had to count for something.

"Yeah, okay," Dean muttered, then snorted a soft laugh. "He'd argue me on this, but he's a hunter, Jim. If he's hurt and scared, he's gonna go to ground until he can figure things out."

The older man's eyebrow rose. "Until today, I would have said 'going to ground' meant going to find you."

Dean's mouth straightened out. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Well, it's not like he knows where I am." Sam had probably expected Dean to be right at his bedside; Dean had spent his whole life making sure his little brother took that for granted. In lieu of that, "He'd look for some place he felt safe." And there were precious few of those for Winchesters. Dean jumped agitatedly to his feet, scanning the hospital again. "He could be in a bathroom or a supply closet in there, for all we know."

Jim had stood up with him, and his arm curled around Dean's shoulder like his dad's used to do when he wanted Dean to particularly listen. "They've searched the hospital, Dean. He's not in there."

Dean's jaw shifted. He didn't want to be hearing this, didn't want to know that he'd let Sam down again. But he nodded, pushing aside self-recrimination for what would actually help his brother now. "Then he's here somewhere. No wallet, no car, half his screws loose—he couldn't have gotten far." Actually, Dean had no idea what Sam could do if motivated enough: one look at those dazed puppy-dog eyes and he could probably get a sympathetic woman to drive him across the country. But Dean had to believe he wouldn't go far. If Sam was looking for him, and Dean couldn't help hope he was if he was looking for _safe_, then even screwed up in the head he shouldn't have gone far.

Dean _had _to believe that.

Jim was nodding. "Okay, then. Let's go find your brother."

It was the first thing he'd heard all day that made sense.

00000

It didn't take me long to feel a little seasick.

The rain had started coming down harder, reducing visibility. Dean scanned the streets intently as he drove, which meant crawling along the city blocks at a pace that left more than one frustrated driver in our wake. But corners, empty parks and locked buildings and other unlikely candidates, passed by in a blur and a squeal of tires. It was a little too much like a roller coaster ride for my taste.

I didn't say anything, however, just searched for that familiar cap of dark hair towering above the crowd. And tried not to think about Sam being injured and out unprotected in this weather. Dean didn't say a word, either.

Not even when the car screeched to a halt.

He was already jumping out before I'd registered what had caught his eye. I didn't see it at first; what was important about an old Monte Carlo? I squinted at it, and suddenly realized: big black car. If Sam had been looking for Dean, for home, he might have thought he'd found it here.

I was out of the car the second I saw Dean open the door and crouch down in front of it. I caught a glimpse of dark hair just over his shoulder, but I already knew.

Sam was slumped over in the passenger seat, and the split moment of fear I felt faded when I realized he was shaking. With cold, probably: his thin hospital garb was plastered to his body with rain, his hair still trickling water down wet bandages and pale skin.

Dean was talking to him, a low, soothing stream of words I didn't try to decipher. His hand under his brother's cheek hadn't brought any response, and I quickly joined him in shrugging our coats off, bundling them around the youngest Winchester. He moaned at the movement.

"That's what you get for wandering around in the rain, genius," Dean chided gently, hands rubbing, skimming the sling on Sam's arm, the bandage along the right side of his head. Checking him over as he hadn't been able to before. "You're safe now, and we're gonna get you warmed up, okay? Hang in there, Sammy." He glanced over his shoulder. "Jim, you wanna get his legs?"

Grateful to be doing something, I slid into place. "I'm ready."

He nodded, rising and leaning into the car. More quiet words, then he was pulling Sam to him, backing out with his brother in his arms. I got in and grabbed his wet legs under the knees, and we lifted and gently, hurriedly carried.

Sam mewled a little, a pitiful sound I saw Dean cringe at, but he just bent his head over his brother and talked, as we got the door open and he slid into the back with Sam, as they got settled in the back seat, Sam propped against him, as I got into the driver's seat and started the engine. Sam trumped even Dean's precious car, and there had been no hesitation about letting me drive. Dean was busy with more important things.

I drove quickly, looking for a motel. Dean had said they hadn't picked one yet, not even in town that long before Sam had been injured. I knew the kind they frequented, cheap and bare, but Sam needed someplace warm and clean and comfortable to get well in. My credit cards weren't as disposable as the boys', but they had deep enough reserves. And there was no question Sam wasn't going back to a hospital.

Dean had settled into the back right corner, Sam drawn up against his chest so his long legs could stretch out on the seat. But Sam was surprisingly tense, brow drawn and hands balled and back stiff, discomfort only deepening as Dean talked to him. At one point, I exchanged a baffled look with Dean in the mirror: I didn't understand it, either.

Most children called for their parents when they were hurt or sick or overjoyed. I'd almost always heard Sam call for Dean. And even then, I'd never seen a child's apprehensions melt so instantly at someone's voice and touch as Sam's did with his big brother. For a boy who'd grown up knowing better than most how much there was out there to fear, he'd had no fear when his brother—often not much bigger and stronger than he and certainly not these days—was there.

So this was disquieting. And I could see Dean sliding back into the desperate helplessness he'd shown outside the hospital.

I started praying again, and drove a little faster.

00000

He's on a cliff, wavering.

On one side is a voice and touch he knows, bone-deep. It promises safety and care and offers the only warmth he's felt in as long as he can remember.

He's just not sure it's real.

On the other, it is cold and hard and painful, and he is alone. He can go there, shut out this false voice, and know that he is at least safe from the confusions of his mind.

He wobbles, uncertain, knowing what he wants with everything in him, and knowing just as surely that it can't be real.

_Dean's dead. _

But Dean is here.

Hands roam over him, manipulating him, and he should be fighting them but all he can do is trace their touch by the warmth they leave behind: legs, belly, shoulder, back. They finally settle around his chest, the back of his neck, pulling him closer to where it's all warm. There's the vibration of words, male voice—voices?—in the background, and he hears bits and pieces.

"…gotcha. I gotcha…Sammy…gonna take care…okay…"

And he wants it to be real so badly, it hurts.

His lips don't want to work right, and his teeth chatter and nip at his tongue as he tries to get the word out, to offer reason for his resistance and maybe find reassurance.

"…d-dddead."

"What?" He's shifted closer, his damp cheek scraping along material and, underneath, apparently solid, warm flesh and bone. "Sam, what? Who's dead?"

"D-dead. D-dean. Dead." It's the same horrible echo in his brain.

There's a moment of stillness, and he wonders if this is his start of the slide down the other side of the cliff. He tries to hold his breath, but his body is too cold and miserable to rest.

"No." Gruff. Insistent hands on his face, head hurting. "You listen to me—I'm not dead. They were wrong. It was a shapeshifter, remember? It wasn't me, Sam, you hear me? I'm here. Dean's_here." _

That's what he'd thought.

He knows, somewhere under the thickness in his head, that an unreal voice telling him it's real isn't proof of anything, but none of it makes sense anymore but this: he feels safe. Still hurts, still cold, but warming, not alone. Better. _Safe. _

And only Dean makes him feel that way, so he has to be here.

Sam's eyes pry open halfway, then fall shut again. He's held tighter, and the shaking and pain aren't so bad.

He needs Dean. He isn't going back.

Sam leaves the cliff behind, melting against his brother. And even though his head is still spinning and buzzing and he doubts he'll ever be warm again, he finally feels like he's home.

00000

They'd told Sam he was dead.

Dean couldn't quite deal with that just now, so he shut it away to rage over later. Because Sam was finally pressing against him instead of fighting him, panting breaths slowly quieting, and that was what mattered at the moment. Dean rubbed the drying hair, wrapped him a little more closely in his and Jim's jackets, and finally, finally took a deep breath.

"Better?" Jim asked, eyes meeting Dean's in the mirror.

"Yeah," he said tightly. "I think he asked for me, and they told him I was dead."

A moment of confusion, then sorrowed understanding. This was why Sam had run, and resisted. "But he knows it's you now."

Dean huffed. "Big brain of his probably doesn't totally buy it, but at least he's giving me the benefit of the doubt." Another hard tremor went through Sam, making him moan, and Dean's fingers slid over to rub behind his ear, into his hair.

"Looks like faith to me."

It was sheer respect for their friend that kept Dean from rolling his eyes. Faith wasn't a word he liked on a good day. Sam shouldn't have needed faith in him: he had proof Dean would watch out for him.

Usually. But Sam had believed he was dead, had fought him in confused fear. And yet all it had taken was a single promise that Dean was alive and there for Sam to relax and trust him. There wasn't a reason in the world that should have worked, and Dean knew it.

Except maybe faith.

He pulled away from the uncomfortable thought, frowning now at how cold Sam still was. Rain and spring temps didn't mix with injury and thin hospital clothes, and that car had been at least a mile from the hospital. Dean didn't even want to think about Sam taking that walk. He'd be lucky if he didn't end up with pneumonia. Although, taking off because he'd learned Dean was dead, holing up in the nearest thing he could find to the Impala… Dean didn't quite have it in his heart to rail at his brother for that. God knows his getting the same news would have messed him up at least as badly, and, in a way, Sam had still been looking for him.

"Jim, we need to get him to bed."

"Almost there, Dean," the minister said, and then he was sliding the Impala into a parking lot.

Dean scanned the place dispassionately; it was a little bit out of their class, but all he cared about right now was getting Sam warm and dry, and this was already here. He waited in the back with Sam, whispering idly into his brother's hair until Jim returned.

"Fourteen," the minister said, and Dean nodded as Jim relocated the car as close as possible, the back door no more than four feet from the room.

He was out and around by the time Dean had swung his feet out. Together, they moved Sam in a reverse of how they'd gotten him into the car, only this time Jim was pulling jackets off of him, piling them on the floor inside the door. Dean lowered his brother carefully, then he had a switchblade out and was slicing the hospital clothes off the shivering body.

"Grab some towels," he ordered Jim, but the man was already moving. He helped Dean remove the sling and dry Sam off, then pulled the bedcovers back on the nearest bed—the one by the door, but it wouldn't matter this time—as Dean struggled to his feet under his brother's weight. At least it only took a few paces to get him on the bed, and he quickly rolled Sam on his left side, making sure his bad arm was supported, and pulled the blankets up to his neck.

Dean immediately began to strip. His gaze darted up to Jim as he pulled his jeans off. "Don't say anything," he growled.

"Me?" Jim's eyebrows went up. "He needs to get warmed up and that's the quickest way to do it. I'm just glad you're here to volunteer." The quick smile was gone just as fast. "I'm going to get some hot water bottles to speed things up."

"There's one in the trunk." Dean nodded vaguely toward the front door, already sliding into the bed after Sam. "Front office might have one, too." Especially in a place that had beds and bedding this soft.

Sam made small sounds of pain as he shook, and Dean reeled him back in, chest-to-chest, careful with his arm, pressing the damp head into the bare hollow of his neck and winding a leg around Sam's to bring him closer. He rubbed Sam's arms and back, reached between them to chafe his chest. Thank God the kid was out of it or this would be incredibly awkward, but as it was, Dean couldn't even seem to dredge up much embarrassment that Jim was there. If it helped Sam, he would do it; it had always been as simple as that.

"We're gonna have a talk when you wake up about not listening to your older brother and going into a situation without back-up. Dude, four to one? What were you thinking? That's when you call the cops, maybe set up a distraction. You don't just wade in. You're lucky they didn't break something less hard than your head."

Sam shifted, groaning something that sounded like it might be "Dean" with an extra syllable or two.

"I gotcha, don't worry. We'll get you warmed up, then you can get some sleep. Jim's here, too, and he's gonna help, find you some of the good drugs, maybe some soup later, okay?"

Sam was finally starting to feel warmer, not shaking so hard. Not suffering anymore, nor alone, and Dean leaned his head down against his brother's, a stupid lump in his throat.

"Just trust me again, Sammy. I'm not going anywhere."

Sam sighed, growing heavier against him.

Dean would take absolution where he could get it. He swallowed the lump, and started talking again.

00000

I glanced up over my book, through the glasses perched on my nose that few people ever got to see, when Dean went silent.

I'd actually been wondering how long he'd last. The last…three and a half hours, I'd listened to him in the background going over the steps to replace a bad carburetor, a ranked list of the best drummers of the seventies and eighties, the casts and plots of several dozen horror movies, and the menu of the Burnt Toast Diner, wherever that was. Whenever his volume fell, I stopped listening, knowing those words were for Samuel's ears alone, but otherwise, we both knew it wasn't what he said that mattered, just the sound of his voice. The constant proof he was both alive and there.

But Dean was finally rolling out from under the blankets, and I cast an eye over young Sam. He was completely still now, warmed through and resting, the lines of pain on his face eased. Between Dean and I, we'd gotten him to swallow some medication once he wasn't shaking so badly and I redressed his head, and he finally looked comfortable.

Dean, however, looked a little chilled now, often an effect of sharing your body heat with the hypothermic, and I rose to pour him a cup of hot coffee while he pulled on warm clothes. The heat was already set higher in the room, leaving me faintly overcooked in my black minister's clothes, but not complaining.

"He's looking much better, Dean."

A glance back, and softness instantly edged the hard planes of Dean's face. "Yeah, he is. He'll be fine, just needs a couple days rest." He accepted the coffee with a grateful nod and sat down on the other chair opposite mine. "Thanks, Jim." His voice was low again, this time meant only for me. "I don't know how I woulda done this without you."

I smiled, knowing better. "You would've managed, Dean. If you had to—if Sam needed it—you would've managed."

He chuckled briefly. "Yeah, well. Helps having someone around as back-up."

We both sobered at that, thinking about the third Winchester who usually played that role but wasn't here.

Dean finally straightened, setting his mug down on the cherry tabletop. "This can't happen again."

"Dean, the attack was a fluke—I'm sure Sam will—"

He was already shaking his head. "That's not what I mean. Him being in the hospital by himself, them not knowing who to call. They told him I was _dead_, Jim."

I recognized the anger burning behind his eyes. I'd seen it enough in John's. The hospital had unknowingly taken Dean away from his brother, shaken Sam's faith Dean would be there, and that was Dean Winchester's version of blasphemy. "I know," I said quietly, not unsympathetically.

"We need to figure out a way to do this. I can't let him go through that again."

Sam stirred in the bed, whispering something unintelligible under his breath. Dean leaned the chair back on its hind legs and stretched to pat his brother's leg. Sam sighed, settled and slept on.

Dean thunked back down on the rug and let out a long breath, scrubbing his face with his hands.

"You should get some sleep, too," I said gently.

"Yeah, probably." He gave me a sideways glance. "Same with you. I can take you back to the airport tomorrow."

"All right," I said with a nod.

"Other bed's all yours," Dean said around another swallow of coffee, waving a hand toward the untouched bed. "I'll bunk with Sam. When he starts feeling better, kid turns into an octopus."

"I seem to recall tucking you in a few times when you were hanging half out of the bed," I said with a smile.

A small laugh. "Probably 'cause Sam kicked me out." Dean's eyes shifted to me, and I think it was the first time he wasn't too distracted to really look at me. "Thanks," he said suddenly. "I know it was short notice, coming out here, but it…" He shifted in his seat. "I mean, I didn't…"

"Dean." I saved him from himself. "I don't know exactly what demon, literally or figuratively, your father is chasing, but don't forget, you two aren't alone in this. You have many friends who're ready and willing to come if you call. And I know you and God aren't exactly on speaking terms, but I think He's got an angel or two looking out for you, too."

I knew it was his respect for me alone that contained his skepticism to a small dart of the eyes, but I appreciated the effort. There was no need to tell Dean that I thought God had a lot more of a vested interest in the Winchester brothers than even a few angels, or that I didn't believe his atheist act for a moment. But I hadn't been able to ease the anger of a young child Dean and would be unlikely to do any better with the adult. I'd keep praying, but otherwise I'd leave the matter to between Dean and His Maker.

"So," I sat back, hiding a smile. "Since when do you memorize roadside diner menus?"

It was like seeing the sun break through clouds, his sudden grin. "You really want to know?"

I laughed, not missing how another movement from the bed had him reaching back again, reassuring Sam with a touch without even looking. "Will it break my vows to hear it?"

"Probably," he said with shameless cheer.

"Well, you'd better give me the sanitized version then," I said, trying to sound long-suffering and knowing I wasn't fooling either of us.

Dear Lord, I'd missed these two.

00000

The first thing that registers is the soft snuffle of breathing. Dean, asleep, his mind identifies automatically.

The second is that, for some reason, he has a vague memory that Dean had died.

Sam's eyes snap open in the dim lighting to take in the lax face a few inches from his own, freckles sprinkled across a tired face and mouth hanging slightly open. If he'd be thinking more clearly, he'd let his brother sleep instead of yelping a surprised, "Dean!"

Dean Winchester, mighty demon-hunter, jolts awake and promptly rolls off the bed.

Sam winces and stretches to see over the edge, which immediately pulls on muscles that don't like the exercise. Concern for Dean becomes a hiss of breath for himself as Sam squeezes his eyes shut and holds very still.

"Breathe through it," Dean counsels from somewhere eye-level again, and Sam nods jerkily. It helps a little when Dean hesitantly reaches over and catches his wrist.

His head feels permanently broken, but his shoulder's down to a nauseating throb, at least, when Sam peels his eyes open again.

"I thought you were asleep," Dean says lamely, and Sam wonders for a moment if he's looking for an excuse for having stayed within arm's reach, and if so, why he bothers. But then Sam remembers again, and suddenly Dean's hand on his wrist isn't enough. Sam pulls weakly at him with one fist in the front of his t-shirt.

"I thought you were dead," he grits as his brother relents and sits up on the edge of the bed, hip against Sam's forearm. He looks tired but healthy and whole, and Sam blinks, wondering where the earlier fear, the earlier_despair_, came from.

Dean sighs, rubbing at his eyes. "Yeah, about that. They were looking for Dean Winchester and, guess what?" He smiles without it going anywhere near his eyes.

Sam sinks back, letting go of Dean to clasp his hand over his aching shoulder. The mugging, the hospital, it's all coming back, fast enough to make him dizzy, and he closes his eyes. "That's why you couldn't come," he murmurs. "I thought…" He swallows, remembering.

He thinks for a second Dean is taking his hand, but he's lifting it gently aside to thread a sling around Sam's neck and shoulder. The manipulation stretches injured tissue painfully, but the support for his arm makes it worth it. "Sorry. Jim was on his way—I was gonna send him in to see you—but you went AWOL first."

Sam frowns. "Pastor Jim was here?"

"Still is, sleeping in the other bed." Dean nods behind him. "Although, I don't know how, with all your yelling."

He starts to roll over to see their old friend, but realizes it's a bad idea the same moment Dean flattens a hand against his spine to stop him. Sam grimaces in apology and pries his eyes open, feeling the last few days in how heavy the lids are. "Dean…"

Dean cuts in softly. "Got a plan, Sammy—from now on, you always carry a fake ID on you, one I know. And we'll get you an emergency contact card. I'll be there if anything happens again."

"Mmm." Sam tilts his body back so his arm is resting on his side and stomach, but tips his forehead forward so it's resting against Dean's leg. He remembers hints of cold and wet, and being held warm. Dean hates using words, but never hesitates to show how he feels in gentle first aid and contact cards and gruff admonishments. When Sam couldn't make sense of anything else, that much had still gotten through.

Dean lifts his cheek to slide a pillow under it, and his palm lingers on the back of Sam's head. "Four against one, dude—what, the things we hunt not enough of a challenge for you?"

"Girl okay?" Sam asks drowsily.

"Fine. Although she thinks you're a hero, so she might've hit her head."

His mouth twitches at that. "Better 'an being run out of town. And you're carrying an ID and card, too, man." The memories of Dean being _dead_ are murky, but he remembers the darkness.

"Next time, you call me, you don't just wade in, got it?" Dean thwaps the back of his head with exceeding care. "And that girl didn't see you soaking wet and curled up in a junker Monte Carlo."

He pulls one eye open to stare suspiciously up at Dean. "No way."

But Dean's grinning too wide for it to be a joke. "_Oh_ yeah. Ask Jim when he wakes up."

Sam groans, cheeks warming.

"Didn't realize you missed the car so much, Sammy, looking for a replacement like that."

He sorta remembers finding the car, the relief and safety and grief, and his throat tightens. That was no replacement.

Dean's fingers slide through the hair at the crown of his head and his voice gentles. "Go back to sleep. I'll be here if you need anything. Just, you know, try not to shove me off the bed again."

"As long as both of you shut up," a weary voice interjects from behind, startling a smile from Dean. Sam can't help but mirror it.

"Sorry, Jim."

"Sorry, Pastor Jim."

"I'm glad you're all right, Sam. Now listen to your brother and go to sleep."

Dean cants a _See?_ look at Sam.

Who ignores him and leans the side of his head against Dean's shoulder blade as his brother carefully stretches out along the edge of the bed. There's probably an ocean of space behind Sam, but he's too tired and sore to move, and it's not the kind of thing Dean will complain about. Not when he has—

"Geez, dude, your feet are freezing. I thought we defrosted you."

He smiles and tucks his feet up against Dean's legs, and goes to sleep to the sound of his brother's quiet grumbling next to him.

**The End**


End file.
